


Fighting Words

by phalangine



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Injury Swap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7188974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/pseuds/phalangine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the beach, Erik gets paralyzed instead of Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting Words

_November, 1962_

 

It's cold, the rain is coming down in sheets, and the last spoon is gone.

 _Not exactly gone,_ Charles amends, casting a look up. If it weren't so frustrating, he'd be a bit enamored with the sleek metal glaze that's slowly taking over the kitchen ceiling. Pretty though the results are, Erik's habit of repurposing silverware doesn't make eating any easier. They have yet to find a mutant capable of producing cutlery.

Not that they've been looking for one. Not that they've been looking for any mutants.

Sighing, Charles reaches for a wooden stirring spoon. It's too wide for his mouth, but he'll make do. That's what he's best at- making do.

A few floors up, something crashes with enough force Charles feels it. He doesn't need to look to know who caused it or why; he simply sends Sean a telepathic nudge away.

It isn't long before Hank makes the expected appearance. His fur truly does stand on end, Charles notes tiredly. It makes a soft-looking halo around his face. The flash of his extended canines rather detracts from the angelic mental picture Charles had been forming, and the low growl Hank lets out when Charles doesn't get up immediately, simply remains sat on his arse and keeps crunching through his cereal, is the most convincing yet.

"You have to do something " he orders roughly.

Charles doesn't snort but only because his mouth is full.

"I'm not being funny, Professor. He's going to kill someone at this rate."

"He's going to kill someone at any rate," Charles reminds him tiredly. Sensing Hank's impending clarification, he adds, "No, don't bother. I know what you meant. I just don't know what you think I can do. He doesn't want to see me any more than he wants to see anyone else."

Unbidden, Charles' eyes drop to his chest. Erik throwing him out by his blood had been more painful in its unexpectedness than damage.

Hank notices, of course. Hank notices everything. Everything that is, but Mystique. That is what they are calling her now, apparently, not that any of them ever sees her. She and Angel are content to stay tucked away in Erik's side of the house with the teleporter and the Spaniard, whose gift Sean hasn't come up with a name for yet.

"I know you think he needs time," Hank presses, his disagreement clear, "but you can't let him terrorize us. Sean was just bringing him lunch- which he asked for."

"What do you want me to do?" Charles doesn't mean to snap, but he winds up doing it anyway. "All I hear are complaints without a single one of you offering up an alternative. I will not kick them out. I will not start a sanctuary by forcing mutants out simply because they disagree with us. Come up with a better solution or keep your comments to yourself!"

Hank rounds on him, and for an incredible moment, Charles is certain this will be the day Hank finally hauls off on him. Instead, Hank looms over him, silent and predatory, before saying, soft as you please, "You talk about sanctuaries, but so long as they're here, that's all you'll do. Erik made his choice. So did the others. It's time you made yours."

"Is that so?" Charles chuckles. "I'll just leave them to die or run off and set up our kind for a meaningless civil war, shall I? Excuse me if I don't see how that's a better alternative."

The whirl of anger that's been eddying in Hank's mind ever since his failed attempt at finding a cure doesn't turn into the hurricane it's been promising to become. It doesn't falter or speed up; it simply continues its sick swirling, content in its potential. One day, though, Hank is going to lose his temper.

One day, Charles knows, they all will. He prays for it, begs every possible crack in his cohabitants' minds to break and let out the deluge. The constant, unspoken raging is making them all sick. Charles' telepathy lives pressed flat to his skull like a sore hat refuses to heal.

"I'll talk to him," he promises at last. "For all the good it will do, I will at least talk to him."

Hank's expression eases, but before he can reply, a different voice thunders through the building.

"Enough, damn you! I'm not a child!"

Charles doesn't wait for Hank to tell him to go. He's already moving for the stairs.

 

**_xx_ **

 

He isn't certain know how it happens. One moment, Charles' vision is white with pain as Erik pushes the coin through Shaw's brain. The next, Shaw is gone, and Erik's mind is back, only it's screaming in agony. Charles doesn't even know why, not until Erik thinks, _I can't feel my legs._

Charles tries to get Moira to check on him, but he doesn't know if she understands. He can fumble at Erik's terrified mind and try not to vomit on himself. The numbness is unrelenting, and Erik wants to tear it out.

Charles shuts that thought down quickly. With bile in his mouth- from what he has to do or from the overwhelming terror in Erik's mind, he can't tell- he shuts Erik down.

 _Go to sleep,_ he orders. Gentler, he adds, _Sleep, Erik._

It's hell not to reach for him. Erik is nothing if not alive- he would deny it if Charles ever tried to explain this to him, but every corner of Erik's consciousness sparks with the need to fight, the desire to overcome lighting him up from the inside. His subconscious mind is quieter, but it's there, taking in everything around him. His body is the same. Even in stillness, there's something mobile about him. A shift in the wrinkles around his eyes, a twitch of his lips, the tell-tale clenching of his fists- stillness is something Erik has learned, and learned well. Yet no lesson can make the unnatural become natural. Charles wants desperately to see some sign of Erik's well-being. If he could just get to him, he would know. His own mind is frazzled, his reach cut short, but if he were there, he could feel whether Erik's mind is only resting as he told it to, or if it's fading...

"It seems you could use help."

The teleporter- _Azazel_ , the man informs him helpfully- is standing over him. He's holding Charles' wrists, which doesn't make sense until he sees himself from the third person, struggling across what used to be the roof of the the jet, grasping wildly for some part, any part, of Erik.

 _You're very good at this,_ Charles observes suspiciously. _And suddenly very helpful._

Azazel shrugs. _We are mutants. Shaw is dead, your friend needs a hospital, and I can take you._

They can hardly trust the government with Erik's health, and with their own transport destroyed, they've hardly got a better alternative.

Azazel's smile is as wicked as the blades he carries. He takes Charles' wrist, snaps them sickeningly to Erik's side, then, hardly leaving Charles time to explain the situation to Hank, snaps them to a hospital Charles vaguely recognizes.

Later, the doctors, every single one, is clear: had Erik been jostled any more than he was, Erik would have had even greater neurological damage. He could well have died, had amateurs tried to feel for the source of the paralysis or palpated the bleed in his brain.

Charles is just glad his friend is alive.

 

**_xx_ **

 

When Charles told Erik that killing Shaw would not bring him peace, he had not meant that if Erik killed that monster of a man, he would suffer.

Charles wonders sometimes whether they were having the same conversation. "Peace was never an option" only makes sense if they were talking about the war Erik thinks is coming. What Charles meant was inner, human peace- vengeance was never going to quiet the rage in Erik, because Erik is not looking for restitution.

The little boy who once loved chocolate has never mourned his orphaning, and it shows in the rift in his mind.

Part of Charles wonders if maybe Erik's father did survive the camps. Erik never saw the man's body. He knows he had a better chance at reuniting with his family than most. But he chose avenging his dead mother over looking for his father.

He hates himself for it.

Charles can't find it in him to criticise. The abstract hope that maybe Jakob Lehnsherr is alive makes Erik's heart beat a little stronger. Acknowledging it or having it proven false would only hurt him; he can't lose another relative. But savoring the possibility that maybe his father made it out gives him a reason to endure.

 

**_xx_ **

 

By the time he reaches the door to Erik's room, Erik is the only one inside. His mind is restless, murky thoughts twisting over and into themselves. Not even his anger has withstood these months. It is less vicious, less pressing.

Erik is terrified of the silence that took its place.

Charles knocks just once. With no helmet to hide himself behind- that was an argument ugly enough no one brings it up- Erik will feel Charles' telepathy echoing the request to come in.

A moment later, Erik's mind shudders out a weary, _If you must,_ and the door swings open.

That was easier than Charles had expected. Suspiciously easy.

Erik is lying supine in the middle of the giant bed, the front of his shirt visibly damp at the neck and under his arms from the struggling necessary to change position now. They tried getting him to try a different bed. They tried moving him to the ground floor. They tried changing the mattress to something firmer so he wouldn't put so much stress on his still-healing body. But if the idea comes from anyone other than Erik, he won't go through with it.

Charles has a theory that the wheelchair will only last until Erik can levitate his new form safely out the window. He has to give his imaginary Erik credit for it- seeing a man float around on an invisible wheelchair has style.

"I would tell you how absurd that idea is, but I don't think you'd listen."

Charles can't help but smile as he eases himself into the ancient straight-backed chair by the bed. Erik doesn't look back, but that's fine. Whatever was bothering him earlier has clearly cooled somewhat. That's what matters.

Taking in the thinness of Erik's face, a new level of lean that could pass as gaunt in a man not as... conditioned as Erik, Charles can't help but feel a wry hum of amusement. Not at Erik, but at the children. Why they thought a man who was already a cranky bastard would become amicable after he effectively paralyzed himself is beyond Charles.

"You need to eat more," he eventually decides to say. It has the benefit of being true, which Erik knows and rules him further. He should be riled. He's too melancholic by half; rage burns out the toxic despair he collects so easily. All of this, Erik knows.

"I'm fine," he lies.

Charles rolls his eyes. "Sean isn't. Nor is my sister- well done encouraging that, by the way. She's been snappish since you rejected her."

"I didn't encourage her."

"You kissed her, you bastard," Charles grits. "I brought you into my home, I joined your cause, and what were you doing behind my back? Boffing my sister, apparently."

Erik turns narrowed eyes on him. "It was one kiss the night before she went off to fight and possibly die. I won't apologize for validating her- something you never managed."

Charles bites his tongue. Seeing in his sister's mind the memory of slipping under Erik's sheets and kissing him made his stomach sour. If he'd picked it up earlier, it might have been less of an issue, but the fact that she deliberately thought of it when Charles needed her near, when they were fighting possibly to their deaths and he was about to help Erik kill a man, when he was most in danger of losing his mind if he didn't have an anchor...

"You're well matched," he admits. "I don't know any two people more at ease hating me." He shrugs at the frown Erik pulls. "I really don't care anymore. You two can hide and sulk all you like, and you can blame me for everything that didn't go your way, but you will not shout at the children. Sean was trying to be kind. You can't blame him for making mistakes if you don't let him know what you want."

Message delivered, Charles gets to his feet. "Hank says I should throw you out, along with the others scrapping for a fight. I'm not going to do that, though. Not yet. But it would go a long way toward peace in this house if you and the others didn't act like you're superior to us."

He makes to leave, heart battered and head aching, when Erik stops him with a tug on his belt. Twisting, Charles glances over his shoulder.

Erik's expression is unguarded, and the fear there makes another knot in Charles' chest. Clearing his throat, Erik rasps, "I can't feel my legs, Charles."

Charles nods sadly.

"I can't feel them."

"I know."

Jaw working, Erik stares at him for a long time before he says, "I want to walk."

"Then walk with me," Charles replies, tapping his temple. "Until you can on your own, walk with me."

_And if I never can?_

Charles tips his head. "Then walk with me until I can't either and you have to carry me."

Erik exhales shakily, and a tendril of thought reaches for Charles. He catches it gently, wrapping this part of Erik's mind in his own as he has the last few times they've tried this. When he takes the first steps out of the room, his stumbling has nothing to do with his hangover.

Someday Erik will leave. Whether he walks again or leaves in a wheelchair, he hasn't given up on his war. Charles can only hope Erik's war won't take him like FDR's did.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a bigger 'verse with this, but I've been stuck here for months and don't see that changing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fighting Words (The Internal Struggle Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8020663) by [afrocurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/pseuds/afrocurl)




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